


My Name on Your Tongue

by TeaGirrl



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Hurt Merlin, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Season/Series 05, various seasons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-17
Updated: 2013-05-17
Packaged: 2017-12-12 04:01:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/806990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaGirrl/pseuds/TeaGirrl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin can't pinpoint the day his name on Arthur's lips held such power over him. Who would have thought that Merlin would grow to chase and cherish the sounds?</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Name on Your Tongue

He can’t pinpoint the day it began. He can’t remember the moment the butterflies became noticeable; how the air around him had crackled and his skin had seemed too tight when he’d realized that he had swam too far out. He had left the shores of “surely-nots” and “he’s just a friend” behind, and now a sea of brilliant blue surrounds him. And it will either swallow him whole or let him float. Either way, there is no going back. This golden boy holds his heartstrings in his hand, his grip tightening ever so slightly every time he speaks his name. And he doesn’t even know it.

 

*     *     *

 

Merlin kicks open the doors to Arthur’s chambers and uses his foot to slam it shut, his hands busy carrying the laundry basket full of clean shirts and breeches. Arthur is sitting in the windowsill, picking at the stonewall with the tip of his dagger. He jumps at the sudden ruckus of Merlin entering. His eyes narrow as he sees that his red cloak is hanging half out of the basket, its edges trailing across the dirty floor and occasionally getting caught under Merlin’s boot.

“Merlin,” he sighs. “Camelot’s robes are not for sweeping the floor with.”

He hasn’t raised his voice, but Merlin can tell he’s agitated by the way the words sound like they’re being spoken through gritted teeth. He sounds exasperated. It’s a tone he’s used many times before, mostly with regard to Merlin not completing his chores. But Merlin can hear that’s he’s tired. His name sounds heavy on Arthur’s tongue. His voice scratches ever so slightly, and his heart’s not in it.

Merlin looks up and sees the faint shadows beneath his eyes, the furrowed brows, the slight frown. It’s as if the responsibilities that were strapped to his shoulders from birth have finally swallowed the brilliant glow that always surrounds Arthur. And Merlin wants nothing more than to kiss away the furrow between his brows, to unload whatever weight he feels is too much to bear, when he sounds like this; too old, too empty.

But Merlin knows that Arthur doesn’t want him to. Arthur was born a fighter and intends to live that way, even if it becomes the death of him. So he merely folds the red, rich fabric – brushing away the imprint of dust the soles of his boots left behind – before putting it away, all the while searching his memory for spells that would let one share one’s loved one’s burdens.

 

*     *     *

 

The heaviness is gone on the days they revert to their comfort zone, built on stolen glances and innocent caresses and banter. This is where they feel safe. This is when they are both at ease, and Merlin can tell by the way his name rolls off Arthur’s tongue, the way he emphasizes the first syllable playfully.

“You know, I’ve seen sheep with better coordination than you,” Arthur says as he stands over him, sword in hand, a grin on his face.

Arthur had forced Merlin to help him train, and now he is splayed out on the ground trying to catch his breath, his blunt sword lying a few feet away from him. Arthur hadn’t trusted him with a sharp weapon.

“And I’ve seen sheep with handsomer faces than you,” Merlin retorts, heaving himself to his feet.

“Careful, _Mer_ lin. Remember who you’re talking to.” His words are meant as a warning, but Merlin can see the humour in Arthur’s eyes. They know they don’t mean what they say. This is just who they are, who they pretend to be. They’re just playing their parts.

“Oh, I know _exactly_ who I’m talking to,” he says, striding up to stand in front of Arthur, swinging his sword dangerously as he does. He raises his sword up in front of his face, tilting his head, inviting Arthur to do the same. The metal sings as their swords scrape together and Merlin brings his face close to Arthur’s. All that’s between them is the two blades.

“Just another royal dollophead,” Merlin whispers, smirking before pushing himself away from Arthur and taking a swing at him. Caught off guard, Arthur barely has enough time to block it. Their swords clank together a few times before Merlin gets too close, knocking Arthur off balance and sending him falling flat on his arse.

They both share the same look of disbelief, but Merlin quickly arranges his features into a cheeky grin. He moves to stand above Arthur, mimicking his earlier stance.

“I think you need to work on your footwork, _Sire_.”

He drives the point of his sword into the grass, before turning to walk across the castle grounds, leaving Arthur to sit on his backside like a bemused child. He tries to walk at a leisurely pace, his lips pressed together to contain his laughter, but the sounds of joy escape his lips as he hears Arthur shout his name.

He turns and sees Arthur scrambling to his feet and charging towards him. Merlin knows Arthur would never hurt him, but he still breaks into a sprint. The breathlessness from laughing makes it hard to run and sometimes he thinks he can feel Arthur’s fingers reaching for his jacket.

He only slows down when he can hear Arthur’s breathless chuckles between his gasps for air. He spins around, ready to start running backwards, just to flash a smile at Arthur, but Arthur hasn’t noticed he’s slowing down and promptly barrels into him, sending them toppling to the ground. Merlin wheezes as his breath is knocked out of him, and Arthur looks slightly dazed before his eyes focus and see Merlin panting and still smiling beneath him.

And Merlin can see the moment the irritation slips from Arthur’s face. It is replaced by a crooked smile and something dark; something new that has Merlin’s blood stirring.

“I’ll show you footwork.”

 

*     *     *

 

And then there are the days when Arthur hisses his name – the first syllable clipped, the name disguised amidst an exhale - as he sits by Uther’s side, forced to attend meetings with the royal court. His shoulders are slumped, and his cheek rests in his palm, as time seems to continue to slow within the chilled council chambers.

“Yes, Sire?” he whispers back, his breath in Arthur’s ear as he leans forward from where he’s been standing by Arthur’s side. He can’t hide his smirk as Arthur turns to him, a plea in his eyes saying _Please tell me it’s soon over._

“I’m dying here, Merlin,” he says out of the corner of his mouth. His eyes turn to drift across the many old faces that are attentive to Uther’s words.

They both know that Merlin would drag him out of there and relieve him of his boredom if it were possible. All Arthur would have to do is say the word, a name. His name.

So instead Merlin whispers a promise of having a bath ready for him when he returns to his chambers, and breathes out one of the many crude jokes Will told him growing up, just to make Arthur smile.

And it does the trick. Arthur’s shoulders shake trying to contain the laughter, little hitched breaths escaping his lips with the effort. Uther turns to raise an eyebrow at him and Arthur coughs to hide his amusement. Merlin just stands at his side, grinning.

Arthur eventually quietens and shoots Merlin a look of loving thankfulness.   

 

*     *     * 

 

Sometimes this loving thankfulness manages to sneak into Arthur’s vocal chords, on those few occasions Merlin’s name sounds tender and merciful on Arthur’s lips. It is these moments that engrave themselves on Merlin’s heart, and he doesn’t even know it.

He says his name like it’s a fragment of a prayer; with a lilt and a caress of the ‘l’, and follows it with heavy words like ‘friend’ and ‘thank you’. Merlin wonders if that’s what he sounds like when he weaves soft and delicate spells with his tongue. If he ever sounded like that when he spoke to Freya. If he ever sounds like that when he says Arthur’s name.  

It makes something flourish in his chest, something precious and unnameable, but recognizable when it makes its appearance. Occasionally, Merlin convinces himself that this is what love must feel like; a pleasant stream of _something_ that courses through your veins when he speaks your name.

And although Merlin hates to admit it, he knows that in these moments, when his name sounds like a poem and a promise, he’d do anything for Arthur. He’d move mountains and drain lakes. He’d spill all his secrets.  

 

*     *     *

 

But this tenderness disappears and is replaced with a guttural and raw want on the nights they decide they are more than friends. It is one of the few things Merlin takes pride in; the fact that he can make Arthur sound like this; reduced to moans and mindless pleas for _more_ and _harder_ and _don’t stop._ These are the nights Merlin thinks he might love Arthur the most; when they’re both reduced to unabashed gritty and carnal desire, and the world narrows itself down to Arthur’s chambers and the canopy they create for themselves in his royal bed.

Now Merlin can actually _taste_ his name on Arthur’s tongue, after its roamed the expanse of his hot skin, soothing the places Arthur’s teeth chose to claim as their own. His name becomes the essence of him, and he hopes Arthur can taste his own name as their tongues dance and their bitten lips tease.

Among the fine bed sheets and soft pillows, Merlin’s name becomes the driving force that his Prince repeats over and over again as his hands grip Arthur’s hips, frantically bringing him closer and thrusting forward to meet him. His name hitches on Arthur’s lips as Merlin grazes the spot within him that makes him see stars. And it only spurs him on. He wants to hear it again. Always again.

Arthur arches into Merlin’s rough and relentless pace, moaning profanities amidst the name Merlin is chasing. He feels the tension coil in his stomach and groans as it uncoils suddenly and intensely, pleasure forcing his head back, bending his back. The sound of the tight spring being released inside him sounds a lot like Arthur’s name.

And through the haze of ecstasy Merlin finds himself in, he can hear Arthur moan his name one more time, imprinting it in the sheets, leaving it echoing through Arthur’s chambers, before he topples - untouched - over the blissful edge Merlin has been pushing him towards.

Merlin leans over him and kisses him lazily, feeling rather than hearing Arthur sigh his name in relief and affection.

In the dim and safe candlelight, his name being sighed in the small space between their lips sounds a lot like finding one’s home; comforting and soul-mending.  

 

*     *     * 

 

His name is torn from Arthur’s throat in a terrified and desperate scream. It reverberates through the valley, slowly making its way to where Merlin is lying, wounded, on a patch of soft moss. He’s only doing this so Arthur has a chance to escape. Morgana will kill him if she finds him. Merlin knows this is the only way to protect him, even if it means getting captured.

And if he ever doubted Arthur’s love for him, the wretched sound of his name from the distance has restored any faith that had gone missing during his many years by Arthur’s side. That was the scream of someone about to lose something precious. That was the scream of someone who cared too much for his own good.

Just before unconsciousness grips him and refuses to let go, he smiles faintly at the bizarre thought that with a voice like that; a voice that carries and fixes broken faith, Arthur would have made a great Dragonlord.

 

*     *     *

 

Arthur sounds nothing like a Dragonlord as he lies in a clearing in Merlin’s tired arms. His gloved hand has found the hand Merlin has splayed across his chest, where it clings to the pulse that is slowly fading.

Merlin’s name sounds faint and laboured, like Arthur’s trading away fractions of his last minutes on Earth in exchange for the strength to voice it. And Merlin wishes he’d just keep quiet. Hearing his name one last time is not worth having to see Arthur leave him sooner.

Arthur is _thanking_ him, and Merlin feels the numbness Arthur has kept at bay all these years with his tongue and his hands and his kindness come creeping back, weighing down his bones and his heart. Merlin knows all too well the feeling of loss and frantically thinking _we haven’t had enough time_. But he didn’t know watching your beacon – the person who has kept you from drowning and losing yourself – could feel so _heavy_ , so shattering, so irreversible. Merlin is now certain that this is what losing an all-consuming love must feel like. And he wouldn’t wish it on anybody.

 

*     *     * 

 

Arthur has been still for some time now, and Merlin can’t bring himself to say the ancient words that will send his King away, the words that will force a small ocean between them. There’s too much that has yet to be said. He didn’t get the chance to tell Arthur about the greatness they were to build together. He didn’t get to promise him that he would find a way to him soon. And he can’t remember if he ever really told Arthur that he loved him, even if words had always seemed inadequate.

The words crowd on his tongue, begging him to let them out.

_It’ll all be alright once you say it. He needs to hear this._

Merlin waits for a few moments, searching for a way to start. But he can’t find any. So he settles for Arthur’s name.

“Arthur,-“

And that’s all he manages to get out before he chokes on the sounds that now mean nothing. Arthur’s name is no longer a part of him. All it will ever be is a shard of a sword in Merlin’s side, reminding him of what he tried so hard to protect and lost.

He can’t form any words past the lump that is constricting his throat. Tears blur his vision, but he doesn’t need eyes to see Arthur’s face. He’s pictured it enough times in his sleep.

Merlin decides to store away the words that in this moment are too much of a burden, for another day. And he makes a promise to whoever’s listening that he will never again speak Arthur’s name until it means something; until voicing it brings about blue eyes and a kind smile. The universe has promised him Arthur’s return. And he’s going to hold the universe to that bargain. 


End file.
